


Can't Spell Christmas Without AI

by andymcnope



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, F/F, Fluff and Crack, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-04
Updated: 2014-12-04
Packaged: 2018-02-28 02:19:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2715341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andymcnope/pseuds/andymcnope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Kristen, I wrote GEN, okay? I also apologize in advance for the crackiness of this.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Can't Spell Christmas Without AI

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jadesabre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jadesabre/gifts).



> Kristen, I wrote GEN, okay? I also apologize in advance for the crackiness of this.

John is heading to the Turtle Cave when the newsstand guy whistles at him. “Hey, are you— umm, John Hershey?” The man asks, squinting at a box.

John reaches for the gun inside his coat, but forces a smile as he approaches the man. “I am,” he says. At least he thinks he is, The Machine appears to be on a kick lately and he’s been Joe Mars and Johnny Twix; he is fairly sure the candy names are at least partly Root’s doing. 

“Delivery guy said the office building was locked and he couldn’t get buzzed in,” the man explains. “Told him I could hold it for ya.”

The man holds the box close as he extends his other hand; John maintains the fake smile as he pulls a $20 out of the pocket next to the holster he’s been reaching for. “Here you go.”

“Oh man, you didn’t have to. Christmas cheer and all that— or you know, Hanukkah or Festivus or whatever you observe,” the man says as he readily pockets the money before handing John the box.

John just glares politely in response, taking the box and continuing his roundabout way to the Turtle Cave.

Harold greets him with almost as much enthusiasm as Bear (who can probably still smell Fusco’s roach coach lunch juices on the bottom of John’s pants), and he promptly inquires about the box.

“Do you have any idea what it is?” Harold asks as he examines the outside.

“It doesn’t tick, I know that much,” John offers as he sets it down on the floor in the middle of the hideout.

Harold issues commands and Bear sniffs the box, not displaying any of the signs that would indicate a ‘find.’

John praises the dog with a treat from the stash that Shaw brought in weeks before, and Harold opens the package carefully.

“They’re lights!” Harold exclaims, pulling what appear to be thousands of neatly lined decorative lights.

*

The second package arrives a couple days later, Shaw shouting for help from the top of the stairs. The decorative lights from the previous package blink rhythmically across the hideout, casting soft white flickers against the darkness of the stairs.

“What in the world, Ms. Shaw?” Harold asks as he carefully climbs up the steps to see Shaw struggling with a tree that looks to be much bigger than her.

“I got a text to pick this up at the FedEx hub; it was wrapped in brown paper with some note addressed to me. I think it’s called Gary? Who the hell names a Christmas tree?” She asks as she allows Finch to assist with moving the large tree until they’re all the way down, and then she picks it up on her own and leans it against the concrete pillar. “Apparently fancy tree farms up in Vermont name their trees,” she says as she thumbs through the six-page pamphlet about the tree farm.

“I have not seen one of these in—” Harold’s voice fades out in the way it often does when he thinks about Grace and before. “I’m sure we can make do,” he offers after a few seconds of silence.

Shaw can’t remember the last time she’s seen one either; probably in the service, she remembers a few people in the unit putting together a tree made out of empty toilet paper rolls and ornaments made from MRE wrappers. 

Finch drops to the ground and begins assembling the base that had been included in the kit; Bear helps in his own way, quietly observing and fetching tools or supplies as needed.

Shaw helps to slide the tree into the base— and yeah, it’s taller than her, probably taller than John even. She slides one of her knives out of her boot, uses it to cut the string that’s holding the branches in place and the tree pops open, three times as wide as Shaw. “What the hell, Gary?” She says as she narrowly dodges a branch to the face. 

“Who’s Gary?” John asks as he enters the hideout. “And where did that tree come from?”

“John, meet Gary,” Shaw says, pointing at the tree. “Another mysterious parcel.”

John stares at the tree stoically. “Are we sure Samaritan is not behind this?”

“Why would Samaritan send us a Christmas tree or a Holiday bush or whatever this is?” Shaw questions. "I mean as far as plans go, this is a pretty shitty one."

Finch nods. “Two packages in just as many days addressed to us and left in the vicinity of our hideout could mean we are exposed - but Ms. Shaw is correct; the odds of Samaritan being involved are… minuscule to say the least.”

John looks appeased enough at Finch’s assessment as he leans in close to the tree; Shaw was right, the tree is taller than John as well.

“Never thought of you as a holiday person,” Shaw points out as she scratches Bear behind the ear, his tail wagging in appreciation.

“I’m not,” John replies. “But the smell reminds me of tactical training.”

“What should we hang on it?” Shaw asks.

“I’m sure we can think of something,” Finch reassures them.

*

The third package arrives at Prof. Wren’s office, antlers that Bear proudly wears behind his ears around campus. The package also contains rawhide bone almost as large as Bear himself, and Finch carries it awkwardly under his arm as students drag suitcases and boxes on their way home for Winter break. 

It starts snowing as they make their way to the curbside by the Engineering building where a cab is waiting for them; Bear’s features change quickly as he takes over the task of walking in front of his human companion to make sure the ground is not uneven or slippery at all. 

He curls around Finch’s lap once they’re in the backseat of the cab, warm and safe, reindeer antlers made of felt  poking against Finch’s arm as Bear dozes off to sleep.

*

“What is that?” John asks when he returns to his desk at the precinct with lunch.

“There was a package for me,” Fusco explains. “It mentioned I won some raffle? I don’t even remember buying anything, but I won one of those fancy bluetooth speakers. So now I can spread some holiday cheer around here,” he says as he points to his phone.

John makes a face of disgust but doesn’t say anything; truth be told, Fusco’s been rather— well, deflated lately, quiet on stakeouts (except for the unbelievably loud food wrappers); John never thought he’d miss Fusco’s boisterous self. If he has to listen to Jingle Bells a dozen times today, then so be it, John resolves as he tosses Fusco’s wrap at him.

“Where’s your kid?” John asks as he takes his own meal out of the styrofoam box.

Fusco tilts his head at John, looking up from the paperwork he’s been working on all morning. “You making small talk?”

“I’m your partner,” John offers, which doesn’t really answer Fusco’s question.

Fusco shrugs. “With his mother,” he offers. 

“Hmm,” John replies noncommittally as he bites into his shawarma.

“How ‘bout you, Big Guy? Holiday plans?” Fusco asks as Little Drummer Boy starts to play.

John’s not really into celebrating, but he remembers a shelter in Queens that he stayed at a couple of times, and on Christmas Day the menu is usually as varied as they can make it, but they still run out every year. “Probably gonna make a turkey or two and bring it down to a soup kitchen on 99th Street,” he replies. Fusco looks interested at the idea, so John adds: “They’re always in need for extra help.”

“I usually work on the 25th, ever since Lee— well, since the divorce,” Lionel adds. “I figure I can let some folks spend it with their families, you know?” He explains. “But I’m not on until noon this year… think they could use some chili? I have a killer recipe.”

A smile tugs at the corners of John’s lips, unusual but not entirely unexpected. “Yeah, I think they could use some chili,” John reassures him.

Fusco nods and returns to the task of filling out his paperwork, taking bites of his wrap every couple of sheets. 

Santa Claus is Comin’ to Town starts playing and Fusco pauses; “She used to— Carter, she liked the Christmas music stations a lot. I never really cared for them myself, but she’d always find a station as early as October.”

Reese leans back in his chair; realizes twelve months have gone by. Fusco’s behavior makes more sense all of a sudden. It’s not that John’s forgotten, but he’s trained not to count the days and weeks and months; stuff like that can be deadly out there, can make time slow down until it threatens one’s resolve. But now it feels like the wind has been taken out of his sails, this cold emptiness in the precinct.

He reaches over to Fusco’s bluetooth speaker and taps the volume button a few times, lets the music spread even further until he doesn’t notice the cold anymore.

*

“Here you go, Mr. Reese,” Finch says when John arrives, throwing a crinkly gift bag at him; Bear’s ears perk up at the noise.

John looks at Finch’s red sweater with a white knit Santa on the front, its beard made from little pouches in the fabric, complete with googly eyes.

Reese’s gift doesn’t contain a santa sweater, but almost as bad; his is dark blue with various snowflakes with different patterns, and more glitter than he feels is called for, but Harold looks so… festive that John slips the sweater on, cringing at the sight. 

Bear looks almost smug from his bed, reindeer antlers sticking up into the air. The Christmas tree stands proudly still, ornaments made up of memory chips and bullet casings.

He’s almost forgotten he’s wearing the sweater when Root appears in his peripheral vision, wearing an equally frightening sweater - baby blue with a white snowman - and a santa hat. He smirks at her, until he notices Shaw behind her.

She looks far too amused at his sweater and he can see her chest rumble with laughter even under the peacoat she’s wearing.

“Sameen,” Root says as she elbows Shaw. 

“What?” Shaw asks annoyedly. Then looking up at Root, she adds, “Oh no, come on!” 

“You promised,” Root reminds her. “Remember, after the—?”

“Ah fine!” Shaw shouts, interrupting Root. “Fine,” she repeats as she undoes the buttons of the peacoat, revealing a moss green sweater with snow-tipped mountains and little reindeers against the white dots in the sky. “Not one word,” she threatens Reese. Her cheeks are flushed, and he noticed just the slightest of stumbling as she was coming in.

“I didn’t say—” he starts to say before she shushes him.

“I am glad to see you received your packages,” Root adds as she takes a carton of eggnog out of her purse, followed by a tin of cookies and a large bag of walnuts. Reese’s not entirely sure how she fit it all in there, but he’s not about to ask her that. “She was starting to worry.”

“The Machine sent us this stuff?” Reese asks, glancing around.

Root tilts her head and condescendingly stares at him. “Of course, who else would have all of your addresses?” 

“Yeah, John, who else?” Shaw taunts; she’s still at the point between pleasantly buzzed and slightly tipsy, and from experience he knows that as long as they keep her away from the guns, he’s fairly sure they will all survive the evening.

“What about your address, Ms. Groves?” Finch asks.

“I don’t have one, Harry,” she reminds him.

Reese watches as Shaw moves far too casually towards the eggnog and cookies. He knows it’s a low blow, but he speaks up anyway: “I think the Machine knew where Root could be reached, Harold.”

Shaw glares at him, but Harold doesn’t miss a beat before he adds: “Oh right, of course.” 

“I’m still not sure why the Machine would celebrate Christmas,” John points as Root opens her bag once again and pulls out several small gift boxes.

“She doesn’t,” Root explains as she tosses him one of the gift boxes. “I mean, technically not just Christmas.”

Harold accepts his own gift, looks at the carefully wrapped box, turns it over and around. “It understands all religions and cultural holidays,” Finch explains. “While I have never been religious myself, it was obvious that I could not expect The Machine to understand humans if it didn’t understand religion; same as with philosophy, relationships or anything else that is part of human life.”

Root hands Shaw her gift, stepping into the shorter woman’s personal space by the table where the eggnog and food are. “Harry’s right,” she adds as she leans against the makeshift. “I guess she thought we could use some holiday spirit,” she adds, bumping her shoulder against Shaw.

“I guess it could be worse,” Shaw concedes between gritted teeth, flushed cheeks flaring up again.

“If it means we get the night off,” John adds.

“It has been a very eventful year,” Harold agrees. “And Bear is quite fond of his reindeer antlers.”

Bear whines in response, this long whine that ends in a contented sigh. 

 


End file.
